


Lines to Atlantis

by slashsailing



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel (Comics), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Amputation, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bisexuality, Blow Jobs, Deaf Clint Barton, Domestic, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mentions of Cancer, Minor Injuries, Moving In Together, Mutual Pining, Past OCD, Physical Disability, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sign Language, Soldiers, Tattoos, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-04 22:41:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3094649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slashsailing/pseuds/slashsailing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tattoo AU which attempts to track Clint and Phil's relationship from their state of shared cluelessness—completely pitiful if you ask Nat or Tony—to their pretty blissful dating endeavour. And yet even from there—things don't go enitrely according to plan. Not that they ever do, though, where Clint Barton is concerned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lines to Atlantis

To begin with, Clint had learned everything he knew about tattoos from the circus.

It had been the place where he got his first crude assortment of ink, most of it blown out, lines bled—though thankfully covered over by better talent and gentler hands less than half a decade later. But the circus had also been the place where Clint himself first picked up a needle, curled up in the back of a side-show, the Swordsman and Trick Shot letting Clint roam free on some of the younger carnies. Stick and poke tattoos turned into using an actual gun, second-hand and ink stained. He’d seemed to have an instant knack for it; good eyes and clever fingers. So, no matter what had happened in the end, Clint had a lot to thank the circus for. It had been the place where Clint had first fallen in love with the art of tattooing, the process, the feel of a gun purring in his hand, vibrating under his palm, sinking the tip of a needle into flesh and creating something all his, and all theirs, something shared and something permanent; it was where he had found his calling.

But it hadn’t been until joining the team at _Shield Ink_ that Clint had really learned what it meant to be a tattoo _artist_. Under the tutelage of Nick Fury, Maria Hill, and—primarily—Phil Coulson, Clint had turned from a slightly rough and ready twenty-year-old into a well-respected, hard-working tattooists by the time he’d turned twenty-six. In his six years at _Shield_ , Clint had grown into his own artist: a definable style, a group of loyal customers, a few praising articles in big time tattoo publications. He could be proud of himself, and he was.

“Why did I let you talk me into this?” Phil asked, deadpan as they watched Natasha tattoo dark red flowers into the arch of her left thigh.

“She’s good,” Clint countered with a shrug. “You talked yourself into it. I just brought her in.”

“You found her; she should be your protégé.”

“I should never have a protégé, ever.” Clint scoffed, turning back to his work table. Various sketches littered his station, no rhyme or rhythm to the order he got his work done, as long as it was ready on the day and adored by the client.

“Tasha, you know you don’t have to practice on yourself, right?” Phil asked, tentatively shifting closer to her. It was after hours and everyone else had gone home a while ago, but Clint had developed and affinity with Natasha Romanov, and Phil was technically the artist supporting her through her apprenticeship so he was necessarily tied to the studio until Natasha decided she was finished. That wasn’t exactly how it was supposed to work, but Phil certainly wasn’t going to argue with someone as determined as Natasha. Like Clint, Natasha had been tattooing in a not-entirely-legal manner for the last four years; she knew how to use a gun, no doubt about it, but a little finesse was needed if she were ever to keep a place in Nick’s studio—which was what she very much wanted now, after some very credible persuading on Clint’s part about four months back. It was just about breaking her out of some of her scratcher habits, Clint had been the same and Phil had managed him admirably.  

“I want the flowers,” she said, drawing the tattoo gun away from her skin and tipping the tip into the plastic cup of water on the table beside her before dipping it into the small pot of black ink. The design became clear to Phil as he stepped closer, scrutinising her form. Tattooing oneself was never a comfortable position, but Natasha hardly flinched as she curved a line of spider’s web from out between the flowers. Natasha had an affinity for spiders it seemed; Phil had already tattooed a fist-sized black widow onto the side of Natasha’s ribs a few weeks ago. Her spiders were smaller, simpler things, like little money spiders all scurrying out from the protection of rose petals. Odd, but Phil couldn’t help but smile. “I want it to be mine.”

Phil nodded, he could respect that.

“They’re good,” he assured her. “Keep the pressure light.”

“As a feather,” Clint added, smirking from his station.

“Yes, yes, little bird,” Natasha said with a slight scoff, stilling her hand and drawing the gun away once more. “I’ll be finished soon, Phil. You don’t have to wait around. Clint won’t let me make off with the silver.”

“I might,” Clint said. “But then I’d have to come on the run with you, and things are pretty cushy here, wouldn’t you say?”

Clint flashed a grin at Phil’s warning look, but was ultimately ignored. “I don’t have anywhere else to be, Tasha. There’s no rush,” Phil assured her, voice gentle.

Clint was once again glad of his decision to shove Natasha into Phil’s lap—figuratively speaking, of course. It was just that, well, Phil really was the best person to handle people like himself and Natasha, people with jagged edges and uneasy pasts. To guide and teach and mentor… maybe even to heal; because Phil, calm and competent, had always been like a balm over the worst of Clint’s wounds. Shaking his head, Clint picked up a pen to distract himself. Those weren’t the sort of thoughts you were supposed to have about your colleague, were they? Certainly not if you wanted to keep a comfortable work environment.

They’d been stewing for months, really. Maybe years. Clint tried not to dwell on it. He respected Phil too much to ever make a move. In his experience, relationships lead to shouting which led to barely being friends anymore. He wouldn’t risk that with Phil. Couldn’t.

“I might head out,” Clint said with a sigh. It was useless trying to concentrate now when all he could think about was Phil. Their elbows bumping in shared affection, camaraderie. Clint imagined the feels Phil’s tattooed hands laid over his shoulders in comfort, _shield_ spelt out over the three middle fingers of each hand with an ink drop on the right pinkie and an actual shield inscribed onto the right—Phil and Nick has been the only two to have their commemorative studio tattoos in such obvious places, their diehard commitment to the business. What would their fingers look like entwined, a mess of tawny skin and blue ink, _shield_ wrapped up with Clint’s own _free bird_ knuckle lettering. It was never going to happen though—Clint had made peace with that, or was trying to at least.

“You’ll be alright?” Phil asked, genuine concern written into the lines of his forehead. Phil looked for all the world like he should be a pencil pushing accountant. That joke was made enough and Phil would always lift his sketch pad and tell them they were right but for the accounting part. With his crow’s feet and his receding hairline, he looked nothing like the other artists who graced Nick Fury’s establishment. Bright and bold and all a little too-cool-for-school. Phil went as far as wearing shirts and dress pants, even. Nice, well-tailored shirts that he had to roll up to the elbow every morning. Shirts buttoned all the way until he got about an hour from closing time when he would undo the top button as a sign of almost-done-ness. Two buttons were undone on his shirt now, a peek of ink and chest hair curling into view. Clint licked his lip and swallowed. “Barton, talk to me."

Clint's head snapped up from Phil's chest, over his throat and lips, barely able to meet Phil's eyes. After a beat, Clint sighed.

“I’m fine. It’s nothing.”

Mumbling a quick goodbye, Clint made his escape. 

Clint’s apartment in Bed-Stuy wasn’t exactly a palace, but it was a step up from anything he’d had in Waverly, Iowa or while under the care of Carson Carnival of Travelling Wonders. Plus, he had the dog. Clint was the kind of guy who needed affectionate companions, otherwise he got scared and insecure—and sometimes bored—and ended up fucking shit up. See: Bobbi Morse. Although, she did seem pretty happy with her on-off relationship with Lance Hunter. Besides, she was still a frequent client of Clint's. So maybe he hadn't ruined things as badly as he'd thought. Just forfeited the sex part—a pretty heavy forfeit if you asked Clint but he’d rather have Bobbi’s friendship than Bobbi’s body and he was lucky that, at least to some degree, she had felt the same way.

After showering, feeding Lucky, and himself, Clint decided an early night would be the best port of call. He needed to be in work for ten tomorrow and he had a pretty full day ahead of him. Clint, Phil and Maria were the only three that worked all six days in the shop. Nick only tuned in for Fridays and Saturdays now; he’d owned the shop for the last twenty years so Clint guessed he deserved a break. Tony Stark, a self-proclaimed genius billionaire playboy philanthropist who didn’t need to tattoo to earn a living but enjoyed doing a couple of pieces a week, was usually hovering around on Mondays and Tuesday. Bruce Banner, their resident Polynesian and tribal artist, had recently re-joined them after an extensive absence in India. He usually worked mid-week but he'd already booked the day off for personal reasons—Banner seemed to need a day to himself every so often and he certainly couldn't get that in the studio. Clint had only met Bruce for the first time about six weeks ago; the guy, quiet by nature, kept very much to himself. No one had spoken much about Bruce’s initial stint at Shield when he was much younger but clearly the man’s time traveling Asia had not been a surprising revelation to any of them.

Wednesdays though, even when there was the added presence of Bruce, were always pretty quiet. With just himself, Phil and Maria in attendance—perhaps Natasha too if Phil hadn’t completely banned her from the studio after three late nights in a row—with the monotonous hum of their guns as ambience, tomorrow promised a day of serene peace. 

“Clint!”

Or not.

“You’re back.” Clint blinked, checking the calendar hanging on the wall. How was it that far into May already?

“You forgot,” Darcy said, pretending to pout. “Phil, he forgot.”

“I didn’t forget,” Clint countered, “I just lost track of the days.”

“Don’t let the clients hear you say that,” she warned with a grin. “Sleep deprivation is not a new fad in the tattoo world.”

“I sleep. I just… don’t check the date,” he finished lamely.

Darcy, their honestly life-saving receptionist, had recently taken her yearly week’s trip down to New Mexico to visit her college friend Jane. Jane was nice enough, from what Clint had experienced of her from Jane’s yearly week’s trip up to New York every August, but she was pretty straight laced, white-collared; which was really to say, tattoo-less. An oddity in Clint’s line of work.

“Steve’s in today,” Darcy reminded, looking over her shoulder to Phil who was scrutinising something at his station.

“I’m aware. Unlike Clint, I check the diary.”

Clint rolled his eyes. “I’m seeing that guy for the scars cover-up today aren’t I? Winston or something?”

“Wilson,” Darcy corrected. “And no, that’s next Wednesday.”

Clint frowned at the diary, flicking back through the pages and realising that he must have looked up the wrong Wednesday yesterday before leaving the studio. “Aw, diary, no.”

“Don’t blame the pages, Clint,” Darcy said, pursing her lips together to hide a no doubt wicked grin.

“So what _am_ I doing?”

“That cutesy rich kid? The one getting the ornate mask wrapped around the inner biceps,” Darcy reminded.

“Ah, yeah. Katie, I like her.” Gold and studded, Clint remembered. It was going to be a fun one. 

“The book says Kate.”

“Katie, Kate.” Clint shrugged, swaying his head from side to side as he considered the names.

“That’s me,” a light voice came from the other side of the counter.

“That is indeed,” Clint said with a grin, taking in the dark haired girl, tucked into a vest especially for the occasion, cardigan deposited over her arm. “Take a seat and let me get set up okay?”

Kate Bishop nodded, perching over on one of the velvet armchairs by the entrance while Clint turned back to his station, a steaming cup of coffee in her hand. Kate had already been tattooed by Clint once before a few months ago, a couple of days after her eighteenth birthday, she’d seen some of his notorious bird drawings, a mix between new and old school, something almost comic-style about them, and she’d asked him to make her up a hawk design for her shoulder. It was one of his favourites and, strange as it seemed, so was she.

She sat well through the first tattoo and even though the inside of the arm was a more tender spot, she sat well through the second. Phil spent the entire morning finishing a commemorative biceps piece on a young soldier named Steve Rogers. His unit, the Howling Commandos, had been captured as prisoners of war, tortured, and, in all cases but two, executed. Steve and his childhood friend James—or Bucky, as Steve called him—Barnes, had been the only two survivors. Steve hadn’t had a scrap of ink on him previous to this, but during his first consultation with Phil he’d explained this unwavering need to mark the event, the loss, his and Bucky’s survival. The piece, black and grey for the most part, hosted an amalgamation of the US Army emblem fleshed out with symbolic pieces for each of the fallen men. It was set over the outline of a red star—apparently Bucky had a filled red star in the same spot done during their last commission. The entire design was overlaid with a Howling Commandos banner, which Phil had just completed as Kate was fishing out notes from her purse to give to Darcy.

“It’s really amazing,” Kate said. “He doesn’t even flinch.”

“You’re a trooper too, Katie-Kate,” Clint assured her. “Arms of steal.”

“I’d love to do what you guys do,” she said before shaking her head. She would be off to NYU or something in the fall, Clint guessed. From what Kate had said, her people were rich and well-educated, and not very fond of the tattoos either.

“You never know what might happen,” Clint said with a small smile. Sure, he started tattooing at fourteen, but that wasn’t everyone’s route in. Tony had taken it up on a whim in his late-twenties; Maria had been a Wall Street executive long before ever turning her artistic talents to the gun. When she wasn't running with the Russian mafia, Natasha had been a promising ballet dancer; Clint had always thought it comical that she might have made a career with her feet rather than her hands.

After Kate left, Steve wasn’t long to follow and the day went on. Phil stopped by to sit beside him while he finished with his final client. Clint was still working the final highlights into the bust of a doe but Phil’s gaze made him feel as though he was doing something vaguely holy.

The moment passed though when Steve and a man Clint presumed to be Bucky walked in five minutes before closing. Clint was just sending Darcy on her way and Maria was wrapping the back piece she’d spent all day on. Phil didn’t seem surprised to see them. He stood up from his seat beside where Clint was crouched, holding the diary away from Darcy so she couldn’t physically do anymore admin, and moved to greet the other two men.

“Captain Rogers, Sergeant Barnes,” he said with a smile.

“Please, that’s worse than calling me James.” Bucky shook his head, a look of pained amusement on his face. “Call me Bucky.”

Clint noticed then, because it was sort of hard not to, that Bucky is missing his right arm—the arm that is supposed to hold the filled version of Steve’s red star. Clint frowned, because it made sense. Steve’s tattoo was to commemorate loss, and it seems there had been more than just lives lost during their time as POWs. Phil did not seem surprised by Bucky’s missing limb, perhaps Steve had explained that part of his tattoo already—it wasn’t as though, as employees of a tattoo studio, they hadn’t all inked their fair share of amputees. People tended to use ink to embrace their bodies and their disabilities—Clint had anyway—rather than hide from them. Clint silently wondered if Bucky had done anything in the way of tattooing the joint of his shoulder.

“And I’ve already said that it’s okay to call me Steve.”

“Army kid,” Phil pled, raising his hands. “Old habits die hard.”

“Army brat, more like,” Clint piped up, letting Darcy say her round of goodbyes before slipping passed Steve and onto the New York street.

“You’d know all about being a brat,” Phil agreed.

“Well we just wanted to stop by to collect you for some hopefully sumptuous Thai food,” Bucky said, clearly the more forward of the two soldiers. Steve hadn’t seemed at all shy during his two sessions with Phil, but there had seemed something old-worldly to him, something demure and bashful almost, as though he had watched one too many old movies and given himself over to traditional sentimentality. He really did seem the sort of man who would jump on a grenade to save his peers and not think twice about the inevitable consequence of his own death. The sort of man who would save a thousand people and not brag to a single soul. Losing his unit must have ripped him apart. It was no wonder he wasn’t currently serving. Bucky, though… Bucky appeared like the bright spark in Steve’s eyes, the lighthouse in his metaphorical storm. He was darker in appearance, hair and clothes both, but there was a buoyancy to him that covered up their cracked surfaces like polyfiller. “You did a really great job with Steve’s arm.”

Phil smiled, ducking his head. He took compliments about as well as anyone else but there was something about Steve that seemed to make it a little more important. Perhaps it was the nature of the tattoo, its significance. Perhaps it was Bucky’s acknowledgement, as Steve’s friend, as his companion in the loss that had inspired Steve’s tattoo. Whatever it was, the flattery went straight to Phil’s ears, turning them pink. “Just knowing that really is thanks enough, you know,” Phil assured them.

“But you didn’t eat lunch,” Clint noted from behind Phil, poking his head up like a cardboard cut-out. “So you should take Steve and Bucky up on their offer.”

“I didn’t see you eat much today either,” Phil accused.

“You’re both welcome,” Steve said before turning to Maria. “You too.”

Maria declined, citing a need for wine and work-related distance, but Phil didn’t let Clint duck out so easily. It turned out to be an enjoyable night for the most part, good food and good company. Clint and Bucky shared a similar sense of humour which made for copious amounts of exasperation on both Phil and Steve’s parts. Numbers were swapped and promises were made to meet up again before the month was out.

“You never know,” Steve said, gesturing his arm. “You might have me addicted now.”

“I can only hope that’s the case,” Phil said, a gracious look in his blue eyes.

“Either way, I’m definitely coming over during working hours to have a look through the books.” Bucky grinned. “I’m thinking some bionic stuff over the shoulder or something,” Bucky gestured towards the ghost presence of an arm. “It’ll be awesome.”

“Talk to Tony about that,” Phil suggested, “he enjoys all the pseudo-robotic stuff.”

Bucky nodded and the four men exchanged their goodbyes.

“Let me walk you home,” Phil offered, nodding in the direction of Clint’s apartment.

“You’d be walking in the wrong direction, Phil.”

“We’ve got wings to talk about don’t we? I thought you wanted to start them Sunday?”

“We do. And I do.”

“So keep walking, Barton.”

“So bossy.”

Phil shrugged, bumping his shoulder against Clint’s. Clint’s heart swelled. It shouldn’t have. The barest of touches shouldn’t have lit flames through his stomach, but it did. What more was there to say? Nothing, and apparently the same was true of their journey to Clint’s apartment. He and Phil walked through the streets in companionable silence while Clint ignored a newfound burgeoning desire to hold Phil’s hand. When they finally reached Clint’s apartment any tension between them broke in the face of Lucky’s excitement and Clint’s polite offer of refreshment. Lucky danced around Phil, flicking his tongue out over Phil’s proffered hand and panting contentedly when Phil began to scratch at just the right spot in the thicket of fur behind his ears.

Clint smiled fondly before heading through to the kitchen to retrieve them a can of Sprite each—which he had known was Phil’s choice of soft drink ever since the first time Clint had tattooed Phil, who slowly sipped at his drink and sat like a rock. Clint found himself unable to get through a session without being on a total sugar high the entire way through but just one can of tart fizzy lemon-limeade seemed to set Phil right.

“Sorry, Pizza Dog,” Phil said drawing his hand away and stepping up to Clint. He took the can from Clint’s outstretched hand and set it on the table, laughing as Lucky nudged his thigh with the side of his snout. Dog, Pizza Dog, Arrow, and Lucky were all names Clint had used for his dog at one point or another—different ones seemed to stick for different people and neither Clint nor the dog particularly minded. “Gotta get your human’s shirt off.”

The request stilled Clint in his tracks; he was glad that his widened eyes were turned away from Phil until he could get his heart rate under control. Phil wanted a look at Clint’s back, that’s all this was and Clint had to remember that unless he wanted to make a complete fool of himself. Inhaling, Clint turned around. Looking into Phil’s clear eyes, bright blue and warm, steadied Clint and he barked out a laugh.

“That’s all they ever want from me, hey, Pizza Dog?” Clint managed to joke, voice still a little rough.

Even without his shirt, Clint didn’t feel exposed in front of Phil. A good thing really, if Phil was supposed to be tattooing a pretty expansive piece across his back over the next few months. Really though, if Clint thought about it, he’d probably be comfortable with Phil even if he was buck naked with a gun pointed to his head. A real gun, at that. Clint had already been under Phil’s tattoo gun, the proof was now on show. Clint’s right forearm had been claimed as Phil’s personal playground when Clint first began working under him six years ago. He’d had a lot of residue ink on that arm accumulated during his time with the circus. A lot of bad ink. Phil had taken it in his stride though, he’d worked through design and redesign until Clint had something he’d really be happy with.

On the outside of Clint’s forearm was the image of a storm raging into an upturned umbrella; that was how Clint had felt at the time, constantly rained on with his only break coming in the most upturned way. The storm clouds had had to be made pretty dark to cover over the lines of old ink, deep greys and blues with shocks of white-yellow lightening wherever Phil could find a completely clear patch of skin. The clouds and rain filtered into a central point were the umbrella, deep purple, began. It’s curved black handle reaching back into the storm. One stray raindrop spilling onto the curve of Clint’s wrist. The inside of Clint’s forearm had been in an even worse state, some of the Swordsman’s worst attempt at line work—and corrective line work—were piled and jumbled and Phil had visibly winced upon first witnessing it.

It was looking as though the only way to save it would be blackwork, but Clint really wasn’t keen on the prospect of having his entire forearm blotted out, like shoving a blanket over bad memories and just hoping to forget about them. But he would never be able to, not if he couldn’t fall in love with the artwork that replaced them.

And that was when Phil came through for a second time. Almost four months after Clint had first joined _Shield_ , Phil presented him with his very own armguard.

“It’s not supposed to go directly on the forearm, it’s the sort of thing archers wear… I know, I know you were fond of archery in the circus,” Phil had said. The sketchpad Phil had handed him was covered by a dark, ornately edged oblong shape. Phil had used every ounce of light space to brighten the piece up, giving the guard an almost metal, armour-style feel. Dented and scratched, a little like Clint himself. “It’s a little old fashioned, the armour, because archery’s a little old fashioned.” _Because you’re a little old fashioned_ , went unspoken. But Clint couldn’t have been more thrilled by it.

His body had finally felt like his own again, with a little help from Phil—covering up the worst of his wounds and his mistakes, which would become a bit of a trend in their years as colleagues. Clint had a few other smaller pieces left over by Trick Shot and the Swordsman, but nothing that had needed urgent attention. That was when Clint’s first piece born from luxury rather than necessity had occurred. And there had been no one better than Phil to do it.

“It always looks as good as it did when it was first healed,” Phil said, pulling Clint out of his reverie with a knowing smile.

“I look after the shit people give me,” Clint countered.

“Hmm, except for that crockpot I lent you.”

“You should have known it would have never come back the same the minute I asked around for any kind of cooking utensil.” Clint shrugged. The crockpot incident was all on Phil’s bad judgement—Clint took no responsibility.

Phil placed a warm hand on the front of Clint’s upper arm, tracing the lines of the face he had put there more than five years ago. An old-school style gentleman made to resemble James Dean, ‘Rebel Without Cause’ written in fairly simple font underneath. It was the only piece on either of Clint’s upper arms. He’d been saving himself for this, for his wings.

“We should be able to have them extend onto the back of your arms just fine,” Phil said. “I couldn’t remember how much the script wrapped around.”

“You just wanted a chance to ogle,” Clint bantered back, relishing Phil’s answering eye roll.

“Sunday’s good for you?”

“It sure is.” Clint nodded. “You want me over at yours or you wanna use the studio?”

“Mine’s closer, for me and for you.” So that was decided.

Phil didn’t stay long after Clint put his shirt back on and they drank the remainder of their Sprite. When Phil left, Clint went about his usual evening routine, taking his hearing aids out a little earlier than usual when he noticed Lucky already curled up in his dog basket so that Clint could bask in utter silence. Some people would probably find it eerie. Usually, Clint hated being unable to hear which is why he favoured his aids outside of his apartment than attempting to get by with signing. But here, in his apartment, he was safe and alone and sometimes the complete absence of sound was the one thing that settled Clint after facing a day in the hectic world, the one thing that took the buzz of the tattoo gun out of his head.

Subconsciously, he touched his fingers up behind his right ear, imaging the small outline of a hand, index finger raised. An arrow underneath pointing down towards Clint’s cheek. Maria’s improvised version of the ASL sign for ‘deaf’. He’d gotten it during a particularly painful week of waiting for his broken hearing aids to be replaced; Clint had been frustrated and feeling a little more than helpless when he’d drawn it out and shoved it in Maria’s direction. She’d make a cool flash design out of it, he’d known. And she had, so cool he’d ended up asking for it for himself. The lines were thick with the faintest hint of pink and flesh tone in the hand and the arrow turned into an actual archery arrow with little green and blue hints in the fletching.  

Touching the tattoo had become a habit whenever Clint was thinking too hard. An overanalysing gesture that he’d noted—no one else had commented on the fact yet, but then he didn’t spend a great deal of time overanalysing things in the company of others.

 No. Clint, apparently, just like to torture himself alone, in the dark hours of the night like a brooding midnight raven. Not that he needed anymore bird associations to add to his name.

What Clint really needed was sleep.

Thursday passed with relative ease, another day another line up of very happy customers. After work on Friday, Clint took Natasha out to a bar like he had every Friday night since she’d turned twenty-one; they got beer and fries and tried to set each other up with appropriate men and women. They always drank their beers, always ate their fries, but rarely went home with anyone other than each other before falling asleep on the couch to _Friends_ reruns.

This Friday things were very much like for like with every other week, until Natasha curled up on Clint’s sofa and asked, “So what’re you going to do about Sunday?”

“What do you mean what am I gonna do?” Clint frowned. “You’ve seen the wing sketches. I’m gonna lie the fuck down and get me an awesome tattoo.”

“You know I’m talking about Phil.” Natasha sighed. “And how much you obviously both adore each other.”

“We—that’s not true.”

“Oh?”

Clint frowned; Natasha was too damn perceptive for her own good. “Phil doesn’t adore me.”

Natasha scoffed, rolling her eyes. And yes, Clint did realise how pathetic he sounded. “For someone with such good eyes, Clint, you’re so blind.”

“Am not.”

“Are too,” Natasha countered, fire in her eyes and a finality to her voice that stopped Clint from arguing back. How did someone half a decade younger than him make him feel like such a kid? How was that even fair? “Completely clueless.”

“So give me a clue,” Clint countered, trying and failing not to sound petulant.

“Come on, Barton. He looks at you like you hung his moon.”

It was Clint’s turn to scoff. “Sure he does.”

“Told you, completely blind.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Clint huffed. “So you keep saying.”

Saturday was a little more strained on Clint’s part. Natasha wasn’t in Saturdays but Phil was, and so was Nick. Their familiar banter should have provided enough distraction, a way of easing back into normalcy. But Clint couldn’t shake Natasha’s words—they made him physically awkward around Phil and he’d seen Phil’s strange looks of confusion out of the corner of his eye as he worked.

He was glad for a day off Sunday, until he remembered how he would be spending his free time: spread out in Phil’s office-turned-studio, shirtless and at the mercy of Phil’s firm, confident touch.

_Shit._

#

“You’re early,” Phil said, opening the door with a smile. Mercifully—or perhaps not, Clint couldn’t quite decide one way or the other—Phil was in sweatpants rather than suit pants today, a long sleeve black t-shirt covering his arms and torso.

“I brought breakfast,” replied Clint, lifting a plastic bag full of goods into sight.

Phil grinned, scrunching the sleeves of his shirt to his elbow, exposing the ends of two full sleeves before taking the bag from Clint and stepping out of the doorway. Clint followed him down the communal hall and in through Phil’s front door, trying not to admire the work on display. Phil’s left sleeve was work of Clint’s, so it was difficult not to let a little fizzle of pride bubble up inside him. They’d designed it together, using panels of Phil’s favourite comics as the basis and sewing them together seamlessly to create a comic strip sleeve with Clint as its artist and Phil as its author. It was bright and witty and everything a comic for Phil Coulson should be. Phil loved it, and the knowledge of that set Clint alight from the inside.

The right sleeve was an entirely different matter altogether; he’d had it done long before Clint had known him, as a young twenty-some protégé of Nick Fury. Ultimately, the concept was a result of the OCD Phil had been battling at the time; it was a strange interweaving of lines and symbols, of precise circles and jutting triangles that Phil had been compulsively doodling every spare moment of his day for months. His therapist had suggested making something finite of the sketches, something complete that joined up every line. Phil had told Nick, Nick had gotten to work. Clint guessed the therapist had probably meant a painting to hang of Phil’s wall or something, not a permanent piece of body art. But those were the marks inked across Phil’s skin now, and his hypergraphia had settled down tremendously in the following months. Clint would never have been able to guess he’d ever suffered with the disorder if Phil hadn’t told him himself.  

The wonders of modern therapy. And tattoos. Always tattoos.

Maria called the sleeve Phil’s map to Atlantis. Clint thought that suited pretty well.

Clint tapped his foot against the floor, a flurry of nerves suddenly making their way through his body.

“Talk to me, Clint. You look nervous.” Phil asked, setting the bagels Clint had bought onto plates and pouring out pint glasses of water and little glasses of orange juice.

“Always am, aren’t I?” Clint countered.

“It’s been a while since I tattooed you.” Phil shrugged. “Maybe I’ve forgotten what you’re like.”

“Wasn’t forty-some hours on a leg sleeve enough contact time for you?”

Phil laughed, tilting his head to one side. “With your pins? It’s never enough.”

Clint couldn’t help but laugh back in response, feeling relaxed again already. Easy banter, yeah—that’s what they were good at. Phil’s particular brand of deadpan kept Clint from every worrying that he was being flirted with. In fact, Clint wasn’t sure if Phil actually knew how to flirt, if actually everything was just on the edge of slightly droll and delightful pokerfaced.

“Come on then,” Phil said after they’d finished with breakfast. “Let’s get you flying.”

Phil ended up getting the entire outline done during the first session; six hours spent carefully marking out the curve of each wing from the centre of Clint’s back, up over his shoulders and down the back of his arms until the tips of the most outstretched feathers touch at his elbow. They have to wait a further two weeks for that to heal before Phil will even contemplate adding a round of shading or colour. Two weeks spent entirely avoid Natasha’s pointed gaze, trying to make nothing of the two or three lunches Clint and Phil spend alone in the shop together—which feels almost purposeful on Maria’s part, and maybe she’s in on the whole thing too with Natasha; women conspiring against him isn’t a new thing for Clint. Two weeks spent standing with his back to the mirror in his bedroom admiring his fresh ink, even as the skin tightens and peels and flakes black all over his bedsheets, two weeks where he feels himself standing a little straighter and smiling under the radiant gaze of Phil. Two weeks childishly spent trying to catch a glimpse of the tonnes of feather colour combinations that Phil is working on even though Phil has told him specifically to keep out of that sketchbook.

“It’ll be a surprise. I’ll have a few options for you to choose from but I have to get them right first.”

“They’ll be perfect, just lemme see.”

“No.”

Two weeks spent sulking a little bit. Until Kate Bishop came in to brighten up his day, pigtail swinging, Frappuccino firmly in her grasp.

He had intended to ask her what she wanted but had been too caught up assessing her healed—very well-healed, indeed—tattoo and talking about his own upcoming session in two days’ time.

“So how long have you and Phil been together?”

 “What? We’re not—”

“Oh,” she said, frowning a little—as though she’d never been wrong about anything in her life. “My bad.”

“Katie-Kate.” Clint huffed, trying to cool the blush crawling up his neck. “What are you even doing here?”

“I told you I’d come back when it was healed, remember? So you could take a good photo.”

Ah, yes. So she had. And here she was like the best type of client Clint could hope for. Clint felt a pang of guilt for forgetting. Kate was a good kid. Even if she was wildly wrong in her assessment of situations and very happy to get involved in matters that didn’t concern her. Yeah, even then.

“Come on through then, we’ll get you under the best light.”

“Please.” Kate scoffed. “Like I need better lighting.”

Clint laughed at that and so did Phil from his position in Clint’s chair. Neither of them had customers this afternoon and while they were desperately hoping for walk-ins they thought they’d amuse themselves with a round or two of _Cards Against Humanity_. Clint’s vulgarity usually won out when he played with anyone else, but Phil’s humour was so sharp, so cutting sometimes, that he usually had Clint awed by the cards he laid. Looking over at Phil, laugh lines crinkling his face as he set down his hand of cards and passed Clint the studio camera, Clint was struck but how much he wish he could have answered Kate in the affirmative. _Oh yes, we’ve been dating six months_.

Thoughts like that just made it five times harder to get through the weeks of session two, three and four of his back piece—weeks that passed in a flash as May turned into June, marking Phil’s thirty-fifth birthday, and into July—until Phil was finally finished after almost twenty-two hours of work. Harder still to get through them without saying anything monumentally stupid.

“They’re beautiful,” Clint said upon seeing the finished product for the first time. Standing, naked from the waist up in Phil’s bedroom with his back turned to the full length mirror before he’d allow Phil to wrap them up and send Clint on his way.

“They are,” Phil agreed, voice soft. “I’m glad you like them.”

Like wasn’t exactly a word Clint would use for the overwhelmed feeling currently coursing through his veins. The wings were dark for the most part, heavily shaded in black and grey. And yet Phil had managed to weave in beautiful tones of indigo and purple, in some places the purple seemed almost burgundy while in other places there were shades of bright violet and soft lavenders, creating a beautiful contrast to the overall darkness of the piece and building up perfectly to some of the white highlights, giving the wings an almost ethereal quality.

“I love them,” Clint admitted, voice barely even a whisper.

They shared a solemn look, a look of a job well done, before Clint smiled brightly and followed Phil back into the smaller office-studio.

“It’s been a good month, Clint,” Phil said tentatively, gently smoothing cream over Clint’s raw skin. “Maybe we can still hang out like this, a bit more regularly. I’ve enjoyed myself.”

“Me too,” Clint said quickly, heart stuttering in his chest. “I mean,” he tried again, “so have I.”

“Clint, I—”

A preppy ringtone began to buzz from the phone on the desk and Phil wiped the excess lotion from his black latex gloves before reaching for it.

“Nick?” Phil waited for whatever response was issued, humming in assent or understanding before he frowned. “Actually, Marcus, I’m a little busy. Yeah. Uh huh, I know.” Phil rolled his eyes and Clint couldn’t quite hide the quirk of a smile. “I’ll stop by tomorrow then before I head into the shop. I can go in late, I’ve got no clients in and I’m sure my boss won’t mind.” Clint heard Nick’s dry _oh you’re very funny, Cheese,_ before Phil said, “I know,” and cut the call.

“What was that about?”

“Nick wanted me to head over to his, said he had something to talk to me about.” Phil shrugged.

“Urgent?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You should have gone.”

“I’m not finished with you yet,” Phil countered, voice steady as always. He changed into a fresh pair of gloves before finishing applying cream to Clint’s tattoo and wrapping a layer of cling film over it. “You know the drill,” he said to Clint. “I’ll drive you home, unless you’d like to stay for a round of _The Real Housewives_ and some _Cards Against Humanity_.” 

“You don’t mind? I mean, shouldn’t you be talking important business stuff with Nick or whatever?”

“I think it was more personal than business. But I know that if his heart was really bleeding out he’d have just come straight here. Although I, uh—I think it’s about me. About something I said to him.”

“Oh?”

But Phil didn’t explain the point further, instead he simply swivelled back out of his chair and handed Clint his grey Henley. Clint dressed, movements laboured and cautious, wincing at the pull of his raw skin as his shoulders stretch taut, before tracking Phil to his lounge and sitting down on the couch beside him. Clint’s knee bounced nervously—it felt intimate to be here, in Phil’s home, next to him on the two-seater sofa.

“You were going to say something,” Clint remembered. “To me, before Nick called.”

He could see recognition in Phil’s eyes but he merely shrugged, shaking his head, “I’m sure it’ll come back to me.”

Clint tried not to dwell on whatever it was Phil hadn’t had the chance to say; he didn’t need something like that eating him up even if it had appeared to be something really significant at the time, with the look in Phil’s eyes being hesitant, nervous almost. What could Phil have to be nervous about?

“ _You_ , you complete idiot,” Natasha grumbled, tattooing the outline of a cartoon iced-coffee cup and straw with the script ‘Iced Queen’ onto Kate’s forearm.

“Yeah.” Kate nodded, keeping the rest of her body utterly still. “You’re a total dummy.”

It had been a couple of days since Phil had finished Clint’s back piece, they were due for another hanging out session really soon and Clint had thought asking Natasha’s advice would prove sensible.

Apparently it was just turning into a round of name calling.

“Why would Phil worry about me?”

“Because he likes you,” Kate said, before wincing. Natasha continued unmoved by Kate’s pain, drawing the gun away after the line was finished instead of halfway through it. Natasha might as well be a pro for all her professionalism. Clint couldn’t wait for her to trust herself to tattoo him. It was going to be awesome.

“Who likes who?” A voice popped up behind them and Clint tensed, taking a bite out of his pizza and turning to face Phil, who was supposed to be in the sterilisation room.

“Clint’s got an admirer,” Natasha said, lips pursed as she wiped over the excess ink from Kate’s skin.

“Nice idea, Kate.” Phil spared a glance at her arm before looking to her face.

“You know me and coffee.” She grinned, smirking in the direction of her discarded coffee cups. Like Clint, Kate’s policy on coffee seemed to be very much that it should be served via IV drip at all times. Although Clint had never really taken to the iced coffee in the same way Kate apparently had. 

“So,” Phil continued, looking up from Natasha and Kate to where Clint was sitting close by at the reception desk where he’d been filling in for Darcy while she was out to lunch. “An admirer?”

“They’re being stupid.” Clint scoffed. “There is no admirer. They’re just—”

Phil’s eyebrows drooped, looking simultaneously relieved and bothered by the statement. Clint didn’t know what to make of the expression and slipped away from the desk to sit in his own tattoo chair, away from Phil’s gaze and Natasha’s judgemental sighing. 

#

“If you don’t ask him soon, Phil, you’re going to drive yourself insane.”

Clint paused at the edge of the sterilisation room, drawing his hand back from the door handle. He had pulled the door practically closed behind him, or at least, he thought he had, before stepping in to run his kit through the autoclave. Not all the way though, and the slither of space between the door and its frame seemed only to amplify the conversation happening in the main room.

“Yeah, Agent,” Tony said. Of course Tony would have to get involved in what was probably supposed to be a Maria-Phil only conversation. Clint still wasn’t entirely sure why Tony called Phil Agent; apparently it was the serious CIA type mode Phil got into when he tattooed, like it was a job of national importance that had to be completed assiduously and with great care—which, to be fair, was exactly how Phil saw it.

“Steve thinks so too.” That was Bucky’s voice, the traitor. Tony obviously rubbed his busybody ways off on everyone he tattooed. That was the only way Bucky, who he’d actually met up with a few times since that first dinner with Steve and Phil and his subsequent bionic shoulder-to-rib piece which had turned the joint where his arm had once been into a magnetic style port that alluded to the connection of bionic prosthetics, with surrounding metal style plates that capped his shoulder and down the side of his ribs. “He’s seen what you two are like together, and he hasn’t told me much about what you two talk about when you go off for your little tête-à-têtes but clearly a certain blond—one that definitely isn’t Steve—crops up otherwise Steve wouldn’t be so committed to it. Steve doesn’t really get on the idle gossip train, you know?”

“And you have your supposedly platonic dates,” Maria pointed out. “Weekly dates, Phil. That isn’t—”

“He comes over for food and a movie, Maria. That is the definition of platonic,” Phil’s voice was gritted; he sounded tired and anxious, as though he’d rather be talking about anything but this. Because clearly they were pressuring him to feel things he didn’t feel. Probably because they’ve heard Clint and Natasha talking about Clint’s completely inappropriate crush—Maria heard everything, the silent observer, tattooing away and lulling you into forgetting she’s even present. An unreciprocated crush too, if Phil’s objection to it was any indication.

“Nick said—”

“Well he shouldn’t have,” Phil stated, and that shut Maria up.

But not Tony.

“You need to talk to him,” Tony continued. “As loath as I am to imagine Phil Coulson having sex, you could be good together.”

“If Clint felt the same way he’d say something. He doesn’t exactly pull his punches.”

“Maybe he’s being reticent because you actually mean something. Something more than just a casual fling. Maybe he’s scared there’s a risk of losing you.” Maria was back talking again, which would no doubt only encourage Tony.

And Clint was still trapped inside the sterilisation room. Luckily it was already half six and Tony was the only one left still tattooing. Tony would tattoo well into the night if the client could handle it, even though that was grossly against protocol. Bucky seemed to be handling it well though, even though a lot of his tattoo had been done over scar tissue which was notoriously more sensitive than typical skin.

“Can we leave this conversation for outside the work place, maybe?” Phil countered, voice still tight, as though he was anticipating Clint’s walking back into the main studio at any moment.

Clint frowned, swallowing hard. He felt like a fraud then, like he had betrayed some intrinsic trust of Phil’s by listening in on the conversation. He could have stepped back from the door, busied himself cleaning everything else lying around by the autoclave, it would have saved Darcy a job in the morning. Or he could have stepped in immediately and cut the conversation short, saved Phil from the awkwardness of having to bare his feelings to a room full of his colleagues.

 _If Clint felt the same way_ … Clint thought about the statement and blinked hard. Was that Phil actually admitting to liking him? How could either of them have been so blind?

Clint slipped back into the room with little fuss. He gathered up jacket, snatching his phone off his work table, watching as Maria did something similar.

“Hey guys,” Clint called, his voice soft across the quiet studio. Everyone seemed to be waiting for something. Maybe they had known Clint was there all along. Maybe it had all been an elaborate display. But Clint couldn’t think about that, couldn’t think about the consequences of being nothing but a joke or a pantomime. These people were his friends; they wouldn’t do that to him, would they? He knew Phil wouldn’t, and Bucky had said all that stuff about Steve routing for them. “I think I’m gonna grab dinner out, you wanna come?”

Clint had addressed all of them, but his eyes were fixed on Phil.

“Can’t,” Tony said. “James here has got another hour to go, at least.”

“Which means I’m stuck to the chair, Clint,” Bucky said with a knowing smile. “Sorry.”

“Yeah,” Maria agreed. “I should have been gone an hour ago. Darcy’ll kill us all for hanging around scuffing her nicely cleaned floors.”

“Phil?” Clint prompted, heart racing. “What’dya say? Can you put up with just me for an hour or two?”

After a pregnant pause, one filled with three sets of blinking eyes and Phil’s unwavering gaze, Phil smiled—a small, almost errant thing, but beautiful nonetheless. “I could eat.”

“Great,” Clint said, exhaling in relief. “Great,” he repeated, quieter and more to himself, an attempt to try and regain some composure.

They left soon after Maria, Phil still had a sketch to finish for a Thursday client before having to pack up his things and tidy his desk. A familiar routine that Clint had watched Phil go through a million times since they’ve been working together. It was calming for Clint; it relieved some of the earlier pressure he’d been feeling in the sterilisation room. Clint walked them to a restaurant close to the studio, not wanting to face an awkward silence but pleasantly surprised with the chatter Phil managed to come up with to coax them both back into normality.

But Clint was finding it harder and harder to pretend he’d heard nothing. Their relationship clearly wasn’t what either of them had been pretending it was, and they had to acknowledge that. It was finally time for Clint to admit he wanted more.

“Phil, look, earlier on… I heard—I mean, I was in the sterilisation room but the door was kinda—”

“I know.”

“I never meant to—I mean, wait what? You know?”

“Yeah… you were in there far too long to just be switching on the autoclave.”

“It’s just that—”

“It’s alright,” Phil assured him, pushing a forkful of pasta around his plate. “Well, it isn’t. I’d have liked to have told you myself. That’s what I should have done. I did—I did try. You know, during your last back session but then Nick called. Ironically to berate me for not asking you out. It’s been a bit of a mess really, up until this point.”

“So you let me listen?”

“I just wanted you to know the offer was there on the table, and once I’d realised you were probably stood at the door it seemed simply just to go with it. Let the chips fall where they may.”

“Natasha’s been bitching at me for months to tell you,” Clint admitted, lifting his eyes up from his own plate of penne. “Even Kate’s at it now.”

Phil smiled. “We’ve been quite remiss, then, in our own judgement of the situation.”

Clint nodded. “Seems so.”

“Then maybe you’ll let me take you out for a date this weekend. Saturday after work?”

“Not Sunday?”

“Eh.” Phil made a noncommittal noise of consideration. “I usually see a friend of mine on Sundays.”

Clint grinned. “Well, I’d hate for him to miss out. Saturday it is.”

But first they had to get through the rest of the week: Tony’s knowing smirk on Tuesday followed by Natasha subtle needling and Bruce’s looks of quiet confusion on Wednesday and Thursday; Fury’s blatant _finally, thank fuck_ all throughout Friday and Saturday. Even some of the clients seemed to understand the situation and made comments of congratulations—Wade Wilson, a client Clint was doing some cover-up work for, actually went so far as to ask what the two of them had planned for their date. Luckily, Wilson’s designs were pretty straightforward, a lot of red and black old school roses, slotted over previously cancerous tumours which had left Wade’s skin badly disfigured—though he was now currently in remission—otherwise Clint might have spluttered and ruined the entire lot. As it stood, Phil had blushed, honest to god blushed, but kept otherwise quiet on the matter. Clint ended up shrugging helplessly, red ink spurting out onto his gloves, while trying to keep from throttling his customer.

Phil was a traditional sort of guy, so the drinks-and-dinner date didn’t surprise Clint.

What did surprise Clint was how different it felt, how different their interaction seemed, the tonality, the pitch… It all resonated differently with Clint, sitting across from Phil talking about the same shit they always had. The flood gates had opened, and all the pent up longing, all the restraint and poise Clint had been trying to maintain was allowed to waver slightly. He was allowed to flirt with Phil overly, allowed to knock their knees together under the table and have it _mean_ something. Things were still as comfortable as they always had been between the two men, except now… now there was a charge between them, sparks snapping like those from a broken cord housing an electric current.

“I’m trying not to be too forward, here,” Phil said, signalling the wait staff for the bill with a gracious smile, eyes crinkling at the corners. “But would you like to come home with me?”

Clint was pretty certain he’d never held Phil’s hand before. What reason had he ever had to? But now he was yanking Phil up, laughing as Phil fumbled to set notes down onto the little silver tray on their table. Clint was still laughing when they hailed a taxi; there was nothing he could physically do to stop himself grinning.

“Why’re you laughing?”

“Too forward.” Clint snorted. “We’ve had our tails between our legs for years now and you’re worrying about being forward?” Clint’s grin morphed into a soft, fond smile, blue eyes shining. “You’re a real gentleman, Phil Coulson, has anyone ever told you that?”

“I’m rarely in the position—”

Clint stoppered Phil’s words with his lips, just a quick peck before drawing back. Bashful and blushing, his heart pounding in his chest. “Sorry,” he murmured, suddenly self-conscious. “I should’ve asked.” Clint’s words seemed more directed at himself than Phil until he cocked his head to meet Phil’s gaze and his world narrowed to a pinprick. All Phil, just Phil. With his pert mouth, the curve of his nose, the little lines between his brows. “Can I kiss you?”

Phil cast his gaze down, dark lashes setting against his cheeks like delicate lace tracery across cream silk. Breath caught in Clint’s throat at the sight. When Phil looked up again, he was smiling—halfway between coy and smug. Clint shook his head, pursing his lips to halt another grin.

“You can kiss me.”

And Clint did. Standing on the edge of the curb with the summer heat still swathed around them, thick and muggy. He set his hands on Phil’s shoulders and kissed him, hands sliding to Phil’s neck, soft skin under Clint’s calloused hands. Clint pictured the lines of ink he knew were now covered by his hands, the deep curves of his old-school cello—Phil’s love of classical music a strange but endearing counterpoint to his other interests. Clint shuddered out a laugh against Phil’s lips and could feel the answering quirk of Phil’s mouth under his, but the brush of their mouths remained hesitant at first, as though Clint wanted to give Phil leeway to pull back, to change his mind. But when Phil showed no signs of going anywhere, the kiss grew firm, confident. Emboldened by Phil’s hands on his hips, Clint parted his lips. Stars surfaced as they kissed, cracking over Clint’s skin like popping candy.

“We should get in the cab,” Phil said when he finally drew away, cheeks flushed, eyes clear as ever.

The driver, nonplussed by their public display of affection, drove them back to Phil’s apartment in what must have been record time. And then they were there; standing together in Phil’s hallway, blinking at each other with twin looks of wide-eyed amazement, as though neither man could quite believe this was really happening.

“Would you like some coffee?”

Actually, Clint thought he might. But he also wanted to make good on what Phil had initially invited him back for, which certainly wasn’t coffee.

Clint nodded, shrugging a little.

Nerves, he realised. Clint hadn’t been nervous around a potential bed mate for a really long time, not Penny, not Jessica, not Bobbi. Not even when he’d been sleeping around with both Maximoff twins—which, side note, not one of Clint’s brightest ideas. Phil didn’t seem to mind the turn off-piste. Tugging his shirt out from his slacks and opening the second button, he padded through the hall towards the kitchen. Clint followed, unable to shake the desire to be kissing Phil all over again, kissing him breathless, kissing him until both their knees buckled. And Clint didn’t want to wait around for the coffee to brew before he did it.

So he stepped up behind Phil, pressing a kiss to the nape of Phil’s neck; warm, unmarred skin greeted his lips, and Clint smiled, tilting his head forward so the bridge of his nose would slot over the skin instead.

Phil turned himself around, cupping Clint’s face in his hands and bringing their mouths together again. Their lips moved with added fervour this time around; no taxis waiting for them, no onlookers around… Phil walked Clint backwards until the small of his back met with the opposite countertop, crowding him into the join of the worktops and rendering Clint at the mercy of his mouth and his hands. Clint pushed himself back further, pulling Phil against him, dragging them both headfirst into a kiss that left them both swimming by the time the percolator beeped.

_Aw, coffee, no._

“Ignore it,” Clint rasped, tugging on the hem of Phil’s shirt. “Phil, please.”

“What do you want?” Phil whispered, smudging his lips over Clint’s cheekbone, down to his jaw, licking over the shell of his ear. "Talk to me, Clint."

“Off,” Clint managed, pulling the bottom button out of its loop, pushing his hands over the lightly haired skin of Phil’s abdomen. “I just need to—”

Phil chuckled, a rich dark sound that sent lust shooting up Clint’s spine. Phil’s fingers made better work of his shirt, casting it aside until Clint’s hands were completely free to rove over Phil’s chest, confronted for the first time with Phil’s tattooed torso. Over Phil’s sternum was a bright blue cube, like a jewel of some sort, glittering as though cast in moonlight. Surrounding the cube was a curved sceptre, an ornately edged blade slotted into an equally ornate brassy-gold handle. The blue orb seemed at once apart of and entirely separate from the spear, engulfed by it and yet ruling over it, so clear and vivid even under Phil’s chest hair. At the edges of the piece there were patches of dark blue shading, alluding to something otherworldly, almost intergalactic in nature, interstellar. Phil’s ribs and abdomen were almost comically free of ink, pale in contrast to the vibrancy of his chest, the bracketing whirl of ink on either arm.

“Did Nick do that?” Clint asked, couldn’t help himself.

“No,” Phil shook his head. “I travelled Scandinavia for a year or two in my twenties. There are two brothers that own a studio together. Loki Laufeyson, the younger brother,” Phil explained. “Hurt like a motherfucker.”

“I love it when you curse.”

Phil huffed a little laugh.

“What about you?” Phil gestured down at Clint’s t-shirt, starting to lift the hem of it. “Play fair.”

Obediently, Clint lifted his arms above his head. Phil had seen his chest before, of course. Not just because of the wings but because Phil had actually done work on his front too. Clint’s chest piece was more traditional in style and content than Phil’s. Under the hollow of his throat started the design of an anatomically correct heart, run through diagonally on both sides with old style arrows, black and purple feathers tied around wooden lengths that ended with sharp, slate-like arrow heads. Tied, haphazardly, with a length of bandage. Blood spattered out from the heart, bright ruby red. Underneath the banner read _A Marksman Never Misses_. It was about heartbreak, it was about archery, it was about Clint Barton, and he’d never be able to thank Phil enough for it. Down the front of one set of ribs, Clint had a collection of flash pieces Maria had done for him over the years, including his beloved coffee pot, an old TV set, a pair of spotted boxer shorts, a slice of pizza. There wasn’t really any rhyme or reason to them, but they were fun and colourful and had begun to fit together like jigsaw pieces. Curled under each hip were a pair of simple black throwing knives, oil slick colours threaded through the blade as though Clint could curl his hand around them at any moment, ready to catch and reflect the light.

On his other set of ribs was one of Tony’s robot tattoos; everyone in the studio got offered a personalised one—not to mention that Tony himself had about five dotted about his body—Clint’s was the typical sort of square robot people knew from eighties films. Tony had said it suited him; Clint was rustic and old-fashioned for all his appreciation of modern technology. And although Clint would never admit it, he had been really chuffed with the finished article. Phil’s robot had been tattooed onto his shin, Clint knew. In some ways the thing looked more automobile than automaton. Made to resemble Phil’s 1962 Chevrolet Corvette, Lola, with a heavy dose of cherry red to translate that intention.

Clint shook his head, clearing away thoughts of cars and tattoos to focus once again on getting his mouth on Phil as efficiently as possible, on getting Phil out of his clothes as efficiently as possible.

“Not in the kitchen,” Phil chided playfully, smirking at the sight of Clint with his jeans down around his ankles, purple and white polka-dot boxers the only thing that now stood between himself and Phil. Clint didn’t have to wait long for Phil to lead him to the bedroom, abandoning his own slacks halfway—exposing the Army Ranger tattoo spanning from the arch of his thigh to the top of his kneecap, a skull in a Ranger’s beret flanked by wings and assault rifles bearing the script ‘Lead the Way’; a tattoo for Phil’s father, who had served as a Ranger, for his mother who too had served with the U.S. Army, for an entire family legacy of service men and women, a legacy he himself had only been a part of as a cadet in his youth—before pushing Clint against the hallway wall, dangerously close to the stairs, to kiss a stripe over Clint’s throat, wet and hungry and likely to bruise. For once, Clint was thankful to have not tattooed his neck yet. The thought of wearing Phil’s love bites made Clint see stars. He moaned under Phil’s lips, opening his legs so that Phil could slot his thigh into place. Grinding against Phil was heaven.

“I want you to fuck me, Phil.” Clint gasped as Phil’s tongue lapped hotly over his collarbone. “Would you fuck me?”

Phil groaned into his ear, pure lust and want and Clint shivered in response.

They eventually made it downstairs to the bedroom, both fully naked and scrambling to be tangled in each other atop the sheets. Phil paused to fish lube and a box of condoms out of his bedside drawer, pushing Clint down onto his back and nestling between his outspread legs. The right was full of circus and carnival miscellany: old school style contortionist women in brightly coloured leotards, a lion and his tamer, a crystal ball, the bust of a bearded lady, ‘step right up’ yelled from the base of his shin… It had all been Phil’s work, continued over the years piece by piece until there was no space left. In contrast, Clint’s other leg looked bare. Phil knew of, although he couldn’t see, the piece Nick had done on the back of Clint’s left thigh, of a tree split down the middle, black motor oil and amber-coloured whiskey spurting out from the centre like blood. _Edith_ scrawled underneath it beside a date not long after what would have marked Clint’s eighth birthday.

“God, Clint.” Phil swallowed, breathless and eyes heavy-lidded. “Look at you.”

“You don’t just have to look.” Clint smirked. “You can touch too.”

And that was all the permission Phil needed to have one of Clint’s legs hooked over his shoulder, a slick finger finding its way inside Clint, crooking and stretching until he was ready for a second, then a third.

“I want you inside me, Phil,” Clint whined. “Come _on_ , already.”

A choked laugh bubbled out of Phil’s throat and he smirked.

“Patience is a virtue,” he said, slowly withdrawing his fingers rom Clint’s body before sliding the deeper. Clint writhed and bucked beneath him, letting out long frustrated sounds that Phil sliced through with a well-placed crook of his finger. He had Clint more aroused, more painfully hard, than Clint had ever been in his life.

“You’re a tease,” he accused. “How did I not know you’d be a tease?”

Phil leant forward to kiss Clint’s cheek, folding him in on himself until Clint gave up and hooked his other leg around Phil’s waist.

“Come on, Phil, please.”

Begging, apparently, was the desired outcome of torturing Clint. Without much more fuss, Phil drew his hands away to roll on a condom and run his lube coated fist over his cock, squeezing at the base to steady himself. Clint grinned at that, the sight of Phil as close to the edge as Clint was, and lifted his legs higher so that Phil could slide into him easily. But Phil made nothing easy, pushing into Clint centimetre by centimetre until Clint was arched off the bed, abdomen clenched, urging Phil on with the bite of his nails against Phil’s back.

“You’re gonna kill me,” Clint rasped. “That’s it. This is how I go.”

“There are worse ways,” Phil murmured, pressing his face into the crook of Clint’s neck, biting softly at the sensitive skin, careful not to knock against Clint’s hearing aid. He started to thrust his hips faster then and Clint rolled to meet them, desperate for every ounce of friction burning inside him and between their bodies.

“Clint.” The word scraped out of Phil’s chest like steal on rock, clashing against Clint and making his body hum with its reverberations; Phil’s need and desperation for him was humbling, awe-inspiring, and such a fucking turn on. Clint clenched around Phil, drawing him in deeper. “Fuck.”

“I fucking love it when you swear.”

“So you ke—keep saying,” Phil stuttered, tensing all over, making Clint tense too, as he wrapped a hand around Clint. “Come on, baby, come for me.”

“Phil,” Clint whimpered, trying to last just a little bit longer. Not wanting it to be over. Phil drew his free hand over the flexing muscles of Clint’s thigh, cupping the back of his knee to change the angle slightly. Clint couldn’t hold on then, his entire body giving into the blinding sensation of his orgasm. It rushed through him until his toes were curling hard enough to cramp and his body felt wrung and wrangled in the best possible ways. Phil bucked into him two, three, four more times before coming hard with a grunt.

It took about five minutes for Clint’s higher brain functions to come back online. Basking was as much as his body could handle in the immediate aftermath of such an intense orgasm. Phil didn’t seem to mind that, slowly withdrawing from Clint, running his hands over Clint’s thighs before slipping off the bed to throw away the condom.

“Get back into bed,” Clint huffed. Phil just smiled.

“I’ve bagged myself a cuddler? All my luck must be coming at once.” The statement was dry and sardonic, but the light in Phil’s told Clint everything he needed to know about Phil’s stance on snuggling—even before Phil climbed back into the bed and settled in beside Clint. They lay together, shoulder to shoulder above the duvet for what seemed like an age before Phil rolled onto his side, nudging his forehead against Clint’s temple in an attempt to get Clint to turn onto his side too.

“I’ll be your little spoon, baby. You just gotta ask.”

“Behave, Barton,” Phil muttered, settling his teeth over Clint’s shoulder with warning pressure.

“Hey, one second,” Clint said, leaning his back off the pillows to check the clock on the sideboard. It was half ten, which, sure, was pretty early, but if they were in bed together now it probably meant it was time to go to sleep. “Assuming radio silence,” Clint phrased, almost like a question.

Phil made a confused noise, easing his grip on Clint so Clint could sit up properly and take his first hearing aid out. Phil understood then and nodded.

“Of course,” he said, waiting for Clint to remove the second one before signing _better?_

Clint was always a little flattered—honoured even—by the fact the team had all learnt basic sign language for the odd day or two—or three or four knowing Clint's record—a year where Clint was without hearing aids. But to see Phil do it so casually, so naturally, the two of them lying in bed together, stark naked… It was different. It was domestic and intimate, and Clint could see himself getting used to it.

 _Much_. Clint signed back, leaning over to kiss the side of Phil’s mouth. _Night, Phil._

 _I like watching you say my name_ , Phil signed, with more competency than Clint had expected. It made Clint’s heart flutter. So did Phil’s words when Clint belatedly registered them.

 _Phil_ , he signed again before drawing his fingers out of the ‘L’ and back under the covers. Having none of Clint’s sudden bashfulness, Phil fished it back out again and kissed Clint’s knuckles, mouthing _goodnight_ before pulling Clint back into his arms.

It was a restful sleep, but one Clint awoke from just after six a.m.; he lay still for a few extra moments, contemplating putting his hearing aids in and going in search of a spare toothbrush. But Phil had other ideas. Waking almost immediately, as if in tune with Clint’s body, Phil ran his hand down Clint’s sides, fingers tentatively making their journey over Clint’s pelvis and lower. Clint leaned back into the touch.

“You only want me for my body,” Clint said, but if Phil replied, Clint couldn’t hear him. He could feel the ghost of Phil’s breath on his skin though, harsher than usual, as though he was laughing. Rolling onto his back, Clint brought his hands to his chest.

_I hope you’re not expecting dirty talk._

_Not this early in the morning,_ Phil signed back. _Maybe you’ll let me give you a blowjob though?_

It was ridiculous that Phil even had to ask; it was nice, though, Clint supposed, that he did. The ensuring oral sex was nice too—a little more than nice, even. And the morning’s festivities did not end there. No. There were also joint shower entertainment to be enjoyed, followed by pancakes.

“I’m giving that date at least a seven out of ten,” Clint joked, helping Phil clear the table.

Phil raised an eyebrow, considering the statement.

“Only a seven? Well, lucky I have the rest of the day to up my game.”

“Lucky you do.”

Wait a minute. Lucky?

_Shit._

#

Phil only laughed a little bit while driving Clint back to his apartment. But really, who forgot about their dog? Certainly not Clint. He loved his dog.

“I guess I must have really fucked your brains out,” Phil noted, voice even and calm as ever. Not a hint of emotion. If Clint wasn’t so used to how deadpan Phil could be, he might have spluttered.

“Don’t brag,” Clint scoffed. Unbuckling his seatbelt and carefully stepping out of Lola.

Clint was perfunctory about getting Lucky’s food bowl filled and his water changed; the dog seemed nonplussed about Clint’s absence—the reason as to why became very clear when a box of leftover pizza was found half-hidden behind his dog basket.

“Aw, dog, no.” Clint sighed, telling Phil to make himself at home in the living room while Clint mopped his hallway floors. Lucky busied himself with Phil—which was clearly a way at getting back at Clint for all the neglect—and Clint resigned himself to putting on a load of washing and getting changed into fresh clothes.

For all Clint’s faffing about, Phil was smiling at him when he finally entered the living room.

“You mind if I stay awhile?” Phil asked.

“You know I don’t.”

And so there it was, not as debauched as Clint had planned, but a very lovely Sunday spent curled up on the sofa next to Phil, his boyfriend. And wasn’t that something?

It would have been a really wonderful something if Tony hadn’t immediately started Monday morning with his interpretation of the Spanish Inquisition.

“It’s called carpooling,” Clint countered, “it’s good for the environment.”

“It’s called _we’re fucking_ ,” Tony corrected with a look of distaste. “And that, Barton, is no good for any environment.”

“You were all for it last week,” Phil reminded, striding passed Tony and Clint to his own chair. Clint couldn’t help but grin at the response. No denial, no shame, no secrecy. They were going at this like a real couple and it was kind of awesome.

“At least there will be less UST around here.” Tony sighed, getting out the trace for his first customer. By the look of it, it was only a small piece. Clint didn't have a client for another hour himself so he could take his morning ritual a little slower than usual. Maria wouldn't be coming in until after lunch when she had a session with Tony’s fiancée, Pepper.

“Was he good?” Natasha asked from her perch on Clint’s desk. Phil wasn’t booked at all today until a short two hour session before home time and he’d be waiting around for walk-ins that might never happen, which apparently meant Natasha would be shadowing Clint for the day.

“ _Nat_ ,” Clint chided.

“Yeah, I expected so.”

Clint shook his head, trying not to smile at her.

“It _was_ pretty fantastic.”

“I’m happy for you both.”

Clint finally let his smile seep through. Yeah, things were going good for Clint Barton. Really good.

 _Well,_ for a day or two at least _._

“Okay,” Clint started calmly, tentatively raising his fist. “This looks bad.”

“Keep it raised. We’ll take a cab to the ER. Bruce—”

“It’s fine, Phil. Maria and I will manage. I’ll get Darcy to call your clients when she’s back from lunch.”

“Four days of absolute awesomeness and now this,” Clint mumbled. “What’s with that?”

“Just hold it steady,” said Phil, gently cupping the elbow of his uninjured arm. “You hurt anywhere else?”

“Does the bone look like it’s raised to you?” Clint asked, frowning at the sight of his hand— _please not broken, please._

“Try not to think about it,” Phil murmured, pressing a quick kiss to Clint’s forehead.

But on the cab ride to the hospital, Clint could do nothing except think about it. How ridiculously stupid he had been to trip over the wires of his own headphones and go tumbling smack into the hard tiled flooring, throwing his left hand out to break his fall. Only to end up breaking his hand. A nice Wednesday spoiled beyond recognition by the horrible wicked clutches of irony. Arm and hand injuries were a tattooist’s worst nightmare. His hand and his eyes were his livelihood and now he had a doctor sending him for x-rays, resetting a partial fracture and shoving his hand in a plaster cast for a month at least.

“Then, hopefully,” she continued. “If there’s no sign of swelling and such, we can put you into a soft cast. You should be all healed in eight weeks tops. Although with the position of the injury, you might have to work for a while longer getting your dexterity back, your wrist might end up feeling slightly tight if you don’t exercise it well once you’re out of the hard cast.”

“You might as well just cut it off.” Clint sighed, mopey blue eyes turning to frown at the doctor.

She offered Clint and Phil a tight smile each.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Barton. All you can do now is go home, take some painkillers and rest. Keep your arm elevated, use a sling if necessary. Come back to us if the pain gets worse.”

That really wasn’t what Clint wanted to hear. The only solution was to sulk in silence for eternity and nestle himself into bed for a month.

“Are you going to talk to me about this or just ignore it? You and Lucky can stay with me, you know,” Phil said as they started the walk back to Phil’s apartment. “I mean, you don’t have to of course. But, it might be easier, safer. I don’t want you hurting it any worse than it is. Besides, you’ll be bored out of your mind home alone for a month.”

“I’m still going into the studio.”

“What? Clint you can’t hold a pencil never mind a gun—”

“No, just—just to work the desk or something. Jane is coming over next week and Darcy’ll be having that off. We’ve got your Norwegian friend coming to guest for the whole of August, things will be busy. We’ll need someone on the desk. Not just us all pitching in. I can answer the phone with one hand; I can type with one hand. It’s fine. You can all write your own appointments in the diary and share the drying up from the autoclave. I just—I just don’t wanna be useless.”

“You aren’t useless.” The lines between Phil’s brows became more prominent and Clint sighed. “You’re injured. Besides, Pepper already volunteered to fill in for Darcy. And you know Darcy and Jane will end up hanging around the shop anyway.”

“I’ll go crazy in the house for a month, even if I’ll have you for company in the evenings. Not that I’m saying I should move in with you… That’s not—I mean my lease isn’t even up for another… oh shit.”

“Another what? How long is your lease for?”

“Two months?” Clint supplied. “Three? Shit, I’ll have to check the paper work.”

“Just stop worrying,” said Phil, a beacon of calm in Clint’s rain shower. “Stay with me, please. I’ve even got the garden apartment.”

Phil’s two up two down maisonette apartment was a pretty nice offer. The kitchen and sitting room on the first floor, walked up to from the street by nicely maintained steps with a little front patch of grass and everything, and then the bedroom, en-suite and closet, as well as Phil’s study-cum-studio on the ground level, patio doors leading out from the bedroom into a neatly kept garden.

“You sure you don’t mind? Just until my hand is better. I’ll sort my lease, I’m thinking of moving closer to the studio anyway.”

“Well, for the time being at least, I _am_ closer to the studio,” Phil pointed out. But no more was said on the matter in favour of moving Clint’s necessities, as well as Lucky, into Phil’s apartment. His upstairs neighbour, Victoria Hand, gave Lucky a look of disapproval upon seeing him entering up their shared front steps.

“It’s just for a while, Victoria,” Phil assured her with a gentle, if not a little sarcastic, smile. “He’s a good dog.”

“He’d better be.”

Clint made wide, mocking eyes at Phil and ushered Lucky down the hallway and into Phil’s apartment.

“She’s pleasant,” Clint scoffed.

“She’s a logisitics expert for the DHS; I don’t think she trusts me not to have a wild meth party and spill ink on everything she loves, even though I’ve been living here for the past eight years without issue.” Clint laughed at that, because yeah, tattoo stigma was pretty outrageous—Phil was technically a Political Science major, holding his BA with Columbia University. He’d started his tattoo apprenticeship two years into his degree and it hadn’t turned him into some sort of angry thug. If anything, tattooing had calmed Phil down, had been a way to stress relieve from international relations essays and comparative politics presentations. Clint hadn’t known him then, of course, but it was always pretty hot to hear about the studious, academic side of Phil. “Anyway, I’ll start dinner, you get yourself set up.”

“Yes, sir.” Clint snapped a salute at Phil before awkwardly carrying a cardboard box down into Phil’s bedroom. Doing everything one handed sucked, and it certainly put a spanner in the works for all the acrobatic sex Clint had been planning on having. They’d just have to be a little more—well less, really—creative, he supposed.

“I have an idea for later,” Clint said when they finally sat down to eat. Phil looked up from his rice and tilted his head attentively. “I’m gonna ride you.”

A stretch of silence passed where Phil did nothing but blink at Clint. Uncomprehending, utterly blank. Then he bobbed his head, half nodding, half in contemplation.

“Okay,” he said, before lifting another forkful of rice to his mouth.

“Then I can be careful of my hand, you know?”

Phil smiled then. “Sounds like a plan.”

And yeah, it was kind of the best plan ever.

“You look thoroughly fucked,” Natasha observed the next morning. “And I do mean in the sex way.”

Clint waved his cast at her, wishing he could make his fingers cooperate enough to flip her the bird.

“Is it me or are there way too many people around here today?” Tony asked, looking from Maria and Pepper, to Bruce, over to Phil and Natasha and Clint. He even eyed Darcy accusatorily. “You’re supposed to be on holiday.”

“Jane isn’t here until the weekend. I finish Friday.”

Which sort of explained why Pepper was there, still favouring her calf slightly where Maria had tattooed a wonderful interpretation of the goddess Hera onto the back of her leg the previous day. She would be shadowing Darcy for the rest of the week, getting to grips with how things were done at Shield, not that Pepper Potts wasn’t already an organiser-extraordinaire—hell, she ran Tony’s multi-billion dollar company for a living.

“And when is the Scandinavian God of ink turning up at our door?”

“Thor will be arriving next Monday,” Phil said.

“By which time,” Maria chirped in, “I’ll be travellling in Africa far away from all of you and your misery.”

“Take me with you,” Phil pleaded, batting his eyelashes at her theatrically.

“Excuse me,” Clint called, swatting at Phil’s shoulder with his good hand before pouting. “You only _just_ got this fine ass into bed and you already want to run off to another continent?”

“I guess we all have varying definitions of the word fine,” Tony said to which Clint made an indignant noise. “Oh no, Barton. I’m all with you on this one. Bad, Agent,” he scolded Phil. “Very negligent. You’re a terrible nursemaid.”

“Maybe I’ll get you a little outfit, help you get into the part,” Clint said with a smirk. A smirk that quickly died in the face of Phil’s elegantly arched eyebrow.

“Too many people,” Tony repeated. “How are we going to fix this?”

“You’re only in two days a week,” Bruce reminded gently. “I think you can just about cope.”

The studio did look a little crowded. It was open plan for the most part, a huge converted art gallery with one third of the black and white tiled floor space taken up by a waiting area, filled with two sleek black velvet armchairs and Darcy’s donated cow-print chaise, on the side of the counter closest to the door. The other two thirds were split proportionally with three bays down one side and three bays down the other. Clint, Phil and Maria were down the left side, while Tony, Bruce and Nick were down the right side. Usually when Natasha tattooed clients she would use whatever bay was free—because there was always at least one open—and she was currently setting up her kit at Fury’s table, having slinked away from Clint when Tony’s attention was turned on him and Phil.

Darcy and Pepper were sat on the two high stools at the front counter, going over Darcy’s diary system.

“Hey, Izzy,” Darcy greeted, the bell above the door tinkling. “Give Phil ten minutes and he’ll be ready for you.

Clint didn’t hear Isabelle Hartley’s reply but he popped his head over the counter to watch her sit down, snake-like eyes tracking his movements, though she made no outward attempt to greet him. Izzy was close friends of Bobbi and Lance, which was to say she wasn’t Clint’s greatest fan. She’d probably be even less amused by his existence when she found out he was dating her golden boy. Izzy adored Phil, as her friend and as her tattoo artist, even if she was reticent with her praise. Her trust and on-going patronage was enough of a sign.

Today, if Clint remembered rightly, Izzy was having her right hand tattooed. A pink rose for her mother who had recently passed away from breast cancer.  Maybe Clint should have made himself scarce for a little while, if only to avoid Izzy’s inevitable condemnation.

What else was there for him to do?

The first few days passed much like that—Clint feeling very much out of place, trying to reschedule clients in with different artists if they wanted to do so, trying to get used to being one handed, which was shit when it came to the end of the evening and he wanted to sign things. Phil was being good about that though, good about Clint’s boredom, his frustration, his disappointment. Bucky Barnes came in for a touch up to his arm on Darcy’s last day of work and invited Clint and Phil out with him and Steve again—an actual double date this time.

“You should come over to ours for dinner sometime,” Steve offered.

It might be nice, Clint thought. Phil and Clint had work together, and they had home together, but they didn’t have outside coupley things together yet. Spending time with the two soldiers was proving to be good for both of them. 

“We’d love to,” Phil said.

Then there was Thor’s arrival to navigate through. He had a strange mode of practise, an odd sense of humour, and two full sleeves of realist storm-scapes. Clint liked him well enough, Phil was slightly less wary, seeing as though they vaguely knew each other from years back. That was a point of contention for Phil though, because apparently Thor hadn’t aged a day.

But ultimately those sorts of things provided good distractions for Clint, who, more than anything, was worried about the possible consequences of his injury on his ability to tattoo in the future.

“You’ll be fine,” Phil promised, kissing down Clint’s belly. “Please try to stop worrying. You’re all tense.”

“There’s nothing else I’m good at, Phil.”

“Firstly,” Phil started, perching his chin over Clint’s navel, “that is an out and out lie. Your oral sex skills are unparalleled.”

“Even by you?” Clint snorted.

“Even by me.” Which, yeah, was saying quite a lot.

“And secondly, you don’t need to fret. It was a minor fracture and the doctor said you’d be fine as long as you get back on the horse straight away.”

“I’d rather get back on you,” Clint said, pouting.

“Which was where I was going with the stomach kisses.”

“Then, please, by all means, continue.” For added affect, Clint waggled his eyebrows before sweeping his good hand down the length of his torso.

Phil did not let Clint forget their conversation, though. Even after a fantastic round of orgasms.

In fact, Kate Bishop came in two weeks after Clint’s accident asking to talk to Clint in private. Darcy was finally back at work—although Jane remained in New York until September to make use of the New York Public Library for her research while cautiously being half-courted by Thor—while Tony and Pepper went away on an extended pre-wedding vacation which may have actually been an attempt at a secret wedding—maybe Clint should have taken bets. All this meant that Clint spent most of his days hanging around his desk doing not much of anything useful. Luckily, he wasn’t still being paid by Nick otherwise he might have felt guilty. Either way, it was no skin off Clint’s nose to invite Kate behind the counter for lunch and a chat.

“I want to be a tattoo artist, and I want you to teach me,” she said. No preamble, no explanation.

“Can’t right now, Kate,” Clint said, lifting his casted arm.

“When you’re better, dummy.”

“Did Phil put you up to this?”

“No.” She frowned. “I’ve wanted to ask for a while but you’ve already got Natasha on as an apprentice here and I know it’s not really that easy to just take on loads of amateurs.”

“Don’t let Tasha here you call her that,” Clint warned, trying not to grin.

Kate pursed her lips at him, unamused. Clearly that was not what she meant and Clint knew it. 

“I have sketches. I can draw.”

“Which helps,” Clint acknowledged, taking the folder Kate extended in his direction.

“There’s just—there’s nothing else I wanna do Clint.” Her words echoing what had been going around in his own head for the last two weeks. “And Phil said Natasha will be fully certified soon.”

“Ah, so you did speak to Phil, then." Clint huffed out a breath. Then he looked down at her portfolio and sighed. She was good, very good. “Okay. Okay, I’ll talk to Nick. But don’t meddle Kate, and don’t let Phil give you any ideas.”

“He was just giving me some advice.”

“I bet he was.” Clint pursed his lips and looked over to Phil, currently tattooing their equipment technician, Mack. The buzz of Phil’s tattoo gun instantly calmed Clint, who wasn’t angry, not really, just irritated that Phil and Kate, and no doubt Natasha, were trying to intervene in his life like Clint couldn’t have it under control himself.

“This one’s cool,” Clint said. Kate’s entire portfolio edged on new school in style, mostly filled with girlie-eyed animals and feminist slogans tattooed over weaponry or glammed-up skulls. The one that caught Clint’s attention was slightly more masculine in tone, a huge-eyed hawk, cartoonish in style with russet feathers and a slight mint-coloured haze in the crook of his neck and wings. Around one foot was a purple ribbon, keeping him loosely tied to his branch. _Home Bird_ Kate’s description of it read.

“You like it?” Kate grinned. “If you teach me how to tattoo, you can have him.”

Clint smiled back at her, pulling on her ponytail as though they were kid siblings. “Okay, Katie-Kate. I still have to talk it over with Nick, though. Don’t get your hopes up.”

Kate nodded, already triumphant. 

The rest of the week passed with easy calm, and after his usual Friday night outing with Natasha, Clint came home to find his sitting room crowded with men—only some of whom he actually knew.

“Hey,” Clint said from the doorway, holding his good hand up in greeting.

“Clint.” Phil smiled at him from the sofa, standing as though Clint warranted the ovation. “I invited Steve and Bucky around; these are some of their friends, Sam and Antoine.”

“Call me Trip,” Antoine said with a wide smile.

“You guys are ex-military too?” Clint wondered, frowning. They couldn’t be Howling Commandos but maybe they had served together previous to that.

“I am,” Sam nodded. “Steve and I met at this group I run for ex-service personnel.”

“My family are connected with the Howling Commandos,” Trip explained. “We met when Steve and Bucky came back to collect their medals.”

Steve looked away, shy or maybe mortified by the mention of his commendations. Bucky held his hand over Steve’s knee and squeezed.

“I’m gonna make some coffee,” Clint said. “You want?”

“I’m good with the beer thanks.” Trip grinned and Sam nodded in shared sentiment.

“I will,” Bucky said, hands absent drink although there was an empty glass on the table, dappled with clear liquid. Water, Clint knew, not a spirit—even if Bucky had Russian roots.

“You want help?” Bucky said, standing in the doorway to the kitchen.

“It’s worse than it looks,” Clint said automatically, fumbling one-handed around the kitchen.

“I know how tough it is trying to work with one hand.”

Clint closed his eyes, his stomach clenching.

“I’m sorry,” he said, turning to face Bucky. “That was kind of a stupid thing to say.”

“No,” Bucky shook his head. “I like it when people forget. Means they see more than what’s missing.”

“You don’t wear prosthetics?” Clint asked, he knew what it was like, to go without something supposedly intrinsic to human biology. As a kid he’d had to get by on lip reading because his father didn’t have the time or inclination to get Clint seen to. His mother had been powerless against that, teaching him and his brother to sign because there was nothing else. His hearing aids were a lifeline, his connection to the hearing world.

“I tried.” Bucky shook his head. “Nothing quite fits yet.”

Clint nodded. “Shit sucks,” he added for good measure.

Bucky laughed. “Shit sucks.”

#

Something wet nudged at Clint’s cheek, he opened his mouth to tell whatever it was—Lucky’s nose—to _go away_ before he reached out for his hearing aids, which apparently weren’t on the bedside table. Disorientated, Clint’s eyes flickered open into a dark room. Phil’s bedroom. Their bedroom, maybe. He rolled over, holding his cast to his chest to keep from putting any weight on it.

“You’re a creeper,” Clint admonished.

Phil just smiled back at him, leaning his face towards the light so Clint could read his lips.

_Couldn’t sleep._

Clint made an attempt to sign his acknowledgement one-handed before giving up and burrowing his face into Phil’s chest. Clint could feel the vibrations rumble from Phil’s chest and throat and he looked up to see Phil rolling his eyes.

 _They’re in the bathroom_ , he mouthed, not taking his arms away from around Clint’s shoulders.

Clint made what he intended to be an unamused sound and curved himself into whatever space beside Phil’s body he could fit into, trying to blanket every inch of Phil’s skin with his own. The jerk of a chuckle made Clint’s head bob on Phil’s shoulder. It was nice, but Clint would have to get up sooner or later if he actually wanted to hear Phil’s laughter. Clint clutched at Phil’s shoulder once—the bright colours of his own work under his skin—before lifting his hand towards the ensuite and rolling out of bed.

Clint had to duct tape his hand before he got in the shower, the cast reached up to the middle of his forearm and it was an awkward experience to say the least. Still, only a week left in the thing and Phil certainly made the effort worth it. Shower blowjobs, ten out of ten.

 “Bobbi called this morning,” Darcy said upon Phil and Clint’s entrance into the studio. “She wants to know when you’re taking clients again.”

“I’m not even out of the cast yet, Darcy,” Clint grumbled. “And then it’ll be two weeks in the shitty support brace. I don’t know. You’ll have to tell her I don’t know.”

“She was pretty insistent.”

“And besides,” Phil piped up. “I’m booking a session with you three weeks from now.”

Clint wasn’t ashamed of how wide his eyes bulged. “Wait, what? For where? Phil, you can’t be serious.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because I might be a shaky mess when this thing comes off; my wrist could spasm, my fingers might have lost tension or mobility… I just—I’m not tattooing you, or anyone,” Clint said pointedly, frowning in Darcy’s direction. “Until I’m a thousand percent sure my hand is as good as before. I haven’t used a machine in nearly a month, Phil. It’s motor memory right? That’s kind of a long time to be out of practice.”

“All the more reason to jump back in soon as possible,” Phil countered.

“Not on you. Get Nick to do whatever it is you want.”

“I want you to do it.”

“Then you’ll have to wait.” Clint huffed. “Darcy, would you push Phil’s appointment back another couple of weeks.”

“Leave it how it is please, Darcy.”

Darcy just raised her hands in surrender. “I’m not getting involved.”

“What do you even want? Why couldn’t we have had this argument at home?”

“We’re not arguing. You’re going to tattoo my midsection. I’m still working on the concept.”

“You’re just booking me in so that I’ll get _back on the horse faster_.”

Clint scowled. Really, really hard.

Phil shrugged. “As a paying customer, I expect to get what I want.”

“Don’t _Titanic_ me, you traitor. That’s a misuse of power.”

“I’ll fit Bobbi in the day after Phil.”

"This is mutiny," Clint huffed, thoroughly decided on the fact that it felt like a damn good time to go back to bed because this day _sucked_.

“Don’t sulk,” Natasha said from behind him, sitting in his chair to tattoo a boomerang onto Wade Wilson’s chest.

“Because I always come back,” Wade explained when Clint asked. And yeah, Clint had to smile at that. Wade Wilson was innumerably irritating, intrusive, and nosy, but he was a resilient fucker and Clint admired that. Also, boomerangs.

Instead of threatening Phil with withholding blow jobs, Clint tried to get through his week with as little grievance as possible. He ended up spending less time at the studio than usual, meeting up with Bucky for lunch on Wednesday, Kate to draw up an apprenticeship plan on Thursday—and, to Clint’s surprise, to meet Kate’s girlfriend, America Chavez, who seemed to take even less of Clint’s bullshit than Kate, bursting into a rant, half in Spanish, about how Clint needed to suck it up and start teaching Kate what he knew; he could say he was suitably chastised—and Natasha, who finished work earlier than usual, on Friday to accompany her on a shopping trip.

And then it was the day for the cast to come off.

The skin around his hand and lower arm was flaky and gross. And so goddamn itchy—although that was nothing new, and at least now with the cast off Clint could scratch to his heart’s content. Clint’s left forearm had the Barton coat of arms on the back of it, a left over piece of work from Trick Shot that Nick had only touched up in places to add depth, but was rather bare aside from that. He also had Trick Shot’s small bow tattoo on the fleshy part of his palm, under the thumb, and the corresponding arrow shooting out from the inside of his index finger. Both of which were currently flaking, ink fainter due to age and wear.

“Will you touch these up for me?”

“It’ll keep you out of working for another two weeks.”

“They won’t take that long to heal,” Clint countered but Phil gave him an unamused look in response. “After then,” Clint compromised, trying his damnedest not to sneer at Phil. “Once I’ve got Kate set up and your tattoo out of the way. Then?”

“Yeah, okay.”

Stocking up Kate’s freezer with practice pig skin was the next job on Clint’s to-do list. Not a pleasant one, granted. But at least he had the use of both of his hands again. And America was there to watch Clint go through the process of setting up the tattoo machine with her, which she was going to be doing in her apartment’s quest room. Clint and Kate went back and forth, passing the machine between the two of them, fiddling with the power supply, getting the tubing for the needle ready, attaching the clip chord. For Clint it was second nature, like the familiar nock, draw, release of archery, but he had watched people fumble over themselves attempting to remember the process, especially its finer details.

Kate grasped it as though it was instinctual. Her confidence spurred him on.

By the end of August, with Thor heading back home, Natasha now working Thursday through to Saturday, Maria and Tony coming back from their respective vacations and the summer buzz dying down, Clint had Kate in the shop with him two days a week. Clint was still wearing the brace on the night Phil presented him with the idea for his desired tattoo.

“Below the naval and up over the abdomen,” Phil explained, “something in between roses and lotuses around the edge, laid under a wolf.” He touches his midriff as if Clint didn’t already intimately know where Phil’s naval was, as though he hadn’t spent an inordinate amount of time kissing and licking along Phil’s treasure trail.

Clint frowns. “I have a request too.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” Clint let out a breath, impossibly nervous about asking for this. It was something he’d been thinking about for a while, but maybe it was too soon. They hadn’t even been dating two months yet. Yet at the same time, it felt completely right. “Just some script, under my throat.”

“Saying?” Phil prompted.

“Talk to me.”

Phil kept his expression expertly schooled. But Clint knew where to look for signs of disagreement, of consternation. There were none. “You’re sure?”

“It fits, I think.”

Phil nodded, just a fraction. “Yes, I think so too.”

Clint smiled. “So you’ll do that for me?”

“And I’ll touch up your bow and arrow.”

“You wanna _touch up my what_?” Clint asked, scandalised. “Phil Coulson, you beast!”

Phil rolled his eyes but didn’t stop himself from pulling Clint forward into a kiss.

“We’ll have to shave your happy trail,” Clint said, frowning. It was pretty devastating news.

“You look distraught.” Phil chuckled, cupping Clint’s face and kissing his forehead.

“I am.”

“You’ll still be around when it grows back,” said Phil, easy and confident.

“Yeah,” Clint agreed. “Yeah, I will be.”

“Then try not to worry too much.”

From then, the days seemed to rush on. Clint keeping himself tided over with line work tattoos and pig skin. Really, he knew, his hand was fine. A little achy over the bridge sometimes after long stints of repetitive moment but nothing that wouldn’t get better with a few more weeks practice. And Kate was coming on at such a fast pace it seemed cruel to keep her sectioned to practice skin only. She understood the technique, the intricacies, in a way not many people did. Her skill and dedication reminded Clint of Natasha—which really was saying something.

“What if you do my touch up?” Clint asked Kate over lunch, Phil within close hearing distance. They swapped a quick glance before Kate looked up from her noodles.

“Excuse me, what?” She frowned, pursing her lips to hold in her laughter. “You know how creepy it is for you to even intimate me touching you up.”

“You two are scarily alike,” Phil pitched in. Clint just grinned.

“I am being serious, though, Kate. If you wanted too; your first real go at human skin?”

Clint knew he wouldn’t be met with hesitancy or worried refusals—Kate was a well assured young woman and she trusted Clint, if he told her she could do it she would believe him.

“Okay.” She gave a curt nod and looked to Phil. “You sure you don’t mind?”

“Have at it,” Phil said with a smile. “He’ll probably behave better for you.”

“I always behave admirably,” Clint objected.

Phil, Kate and Natasha laughed at that. Even Bruce was snickering.

“Assholes.”

By the end of September, Clint was out of the brace and finally tattooing again. He’d pushed Phil’s piece back for genuine creative block, but both Bobbi and Wade, as well as a variety of one off clients, had all had elaborate tattoos done by him—which were met with the same enthusiasm as before Clint's injury. Clint was also finally being tattooed again himself. By Kate first, who did more than admirably. So much so that Clint had offered her an after-hours tattoo of choice to express his gratitude and his pride. After he’d added the profile of a little purple car under the inner crease of her elbow, Phil had finally tattooed Clint’s script.

“My turn tomorrow,” Phil said, warning in his voice. He’d already seen Clint’s trace so there was no element of surprise to the proceedings and no way for Clint to claim he wasn’t ready. Even with everyone convinced that Clint’s hand was totally fine, he was still a little nervous that evening—and more still come morning.

They had both taken the Saturday off work so that Clint could make use of Phil’s home studio, setting up his equipment, Phil came in with a kiss and a cup of coffee and Clint felt a little more soothed.

“This is gonna hurt,” Clint grumbled, squeezing out little dollops of ink into a variety of pots. “And you will deserve it.”

“Don’t be bitter. This is going to be great.”

“I won’t get to lick your belly button for a while. That doesn’t sound great to me.”

“You can lick other things.”

“If you’re lucky.”

“If _you’re_ lucky,” Phil countered with a wry smile.

Already shirtless, Phil pulled down his boxer shorts, resting them just above the neat-shaved line hair over his pubic bone. Clint thought that was probably a sensible idea. Any lower and Clint might not get any work done. Then Phil sat himself on the tattoo bed, not needing to lie back just yet.

“Let me know when you need a break,” Clint reminded, nudging the can of Sprite he'd brought down from the kitchen with him closer to Phil. Phil was a notoriously stubborn tattoo recipient, as though he didn’t feel a thing even when he skin began to inflame and bruise, but Sprite somehow made him more cooperative. 

Tattooing Phil always held something a little more special for Clint, maybe it was because it was Phil who saw his second rate scratchers tattoo and brought him in out of the cold, giving him a chance no one else in their right mind would. Being able to tattoo Phil was like the ultimate trust exercise, the ultimate thank you.

All in all, the piece turned out to be an event that required spreading out over three four-hour sessions, it was gruelling for Phil, whose lower abdomen was even more sensitive than most—which was usually a good thing in Clint’s experience, but watching Phil wincing and his skin swelling to an angry red was not pleasant in the slightest. By the time Clint was entirely finished, though, there was no doubt in his mind that he was back on flying form—if he had ever been off it.

Then it was the middle of October, and Clint’s lease was finally up. He'd collected the last of his furniture the previous weekend, some for Phil's apartment, some for storage, the rest for thrift stores and had started looking, half heartedly, for a new apartment. 

“I never did move back,” Clint noted wryly, curled into Phil’s chest.

“You never did.”

They breathed together for a while, sitting up on the bed, Clint cross-legged, before Clint unhooked one of his hearing aids. Phil stilled the motion with gentle fingers.

“Stay,” he said. Phil’s voice muted, almost heavy in Clint’s head—but perfectly earnest as ever.

“The night?” Clint asked, a wave of coyness playing through him. He ducked his head and Phil let out a breathy laugh. They’d known each other for almost seven years now, and they’d probably been in love with each other for the better part of half that time. Clint was pretty sure he would go wherever Phil lead, where Phil told him was home.

“Don’t be obtuse.”

“Are you asking me to move in with you, Phil?”

“For the second time. Yeah, Clint. That's what I'm asking.”

“Victoria won’t be happy.”

“I think she's used to Lucky now. He keeps the cats out of her window boxes.”

“I was talking about me.”

“Well, that I can’t help,” said Phil with a grin.

“ _Hey_.”

“Joke.” Phil lifted his hands and Clint brought his own up to weave them together. The lettering over his and Phil’s fingers mingling, becoming two threads of utter nonsense. Clint’s heart swelled at the sight. It never failed to leave him feeling giddy.  The Phil shifted, lightly pushing Clint backwards until he was lying down on the bed. Phil rolled himself over, laying his torso over Clint’s, shuffling down the bed until his shoulders were nudging Clint’s thighs apart. Smiling down the length of his body, Clint pressed two the pads of two fingers to Phil’s cheek, smearing them over the bone as though his has war paint in his fingertips. He drew them down over the line of Phil’s jaw and Phil turned his head to kiss Clint’s palm.

“I love you.” He hadn’t said it yet, but then, right then, Clint needed to.

“I love you too, Clint.”

After that everything was a flurry of hot kisses and heavy limbs; Clint’s legs tucked over Phil’s shoulders as Phil blew him, pressed kisses into the sensitive skin of his inner thighs, the under curve of his knees, tracing Clint’s muscle with his tongue. Phil was repaid in kind: Clint licked and bit over the Rangers tattoo, making his marks over Phil’s body before drawing his attention lower; cupping Phil’s balls and swallowing him down, working his mouth over Phil until Phil’s thighs shook from the tension of trying not to come.

“Clint,” Phil gritted out. “I don’t—”

Clint pulled his mouth from Phil with a pornographic pop, blinking up at Phil with innocent doe eyes.

“Put your fingers inside me,” Phil rasped. “Fuck, Clint—”

Thankful to have the bottle of lube close by, Clint leaned over to the bedside table, snatching it up and squeezing a dollop onto two fingers. Clint teased the first finger over Phil’s rim, applying the lightest of pressure until Phil tugged on his hair, insistent and inpatient like he only ever was when Clint’s mouth was wrapped around his cock. So Clint took the hint, sliding the first finger inside as he returned his lips to the head of Phil’s cock. Phil lifted his hips, trying and failing not to thrust into the warm, wet confines of Clint’s mouth. Clint took it, took everything Phil had, sliding a second finger in alongside his first, crooking and scissoring them until Phil saw stars.

“Yeah,” Clint whispered, when they were finally finished and tucked under the duvet. “I’ll stay.”

#

Six months later Clint sat under Kate’s gun again so she could tattoos her hawk into the blank slate of his left forearm. It felt like a worthy trade, like they had come full circle. Tony didn't work in the shop anymore—not since becoming a married man and having most of his time spent on trying to develop technologically enhanced prosthetic limbs. Bucky was the first to benefit, of course—on the surface Steve and Tony were apparently vehemently opposed to each other, but everyone knew better. Darcy had moved back down to New Mexico to work closer to Jane—and Clint wasn’t saying there was anything going on with them, but maybe, just maybe, there was. His ex-girlfriend, Jessica Drew, took over as receptionist—which might have been awkward if she hadn’t spent most of her time switching between flirting with Phil and congratulating him on actually capturing the flighty hatchling that was Clint Barton.

Phil said it was all a matter of setting up the right nest—and Clint was really beginning to hate those bird analogies. Didn’t deter him from letting Kate persuade him into getting matching ‘hawkeye’ lettering down their middle fingers, Kate’s right hand, Clint’s left. Natasha had been only too happy to do the tattoos, and if she could have cackled while still managing to control the gun, she probably would have. Really, what was Clint’s life coming to? He’d probably never have an answer to that question.

A few weeks after Tony left, Fury announced his retirement too, which effectively made Phil the boss—both scary and arousing in turns for Clint. Fury wasn’t really retirement age, not much older than forty probably, but he’d explained that there were a few things he wanted to do—see the world, tattoo a little further afield. He wanted to make his mark on the world, and no one could begrudge Nick that, not after forty years cooped up in New York, not after twenty cooped up in the same damn studio.

A friend of his, Melinda May came in once a week to monitor the books—even though Phil was more than capable of handling the business side of things in Fury’s stead himself. But Phil had known Melinda too, and Clint secretly wondered if Fury hadn’t just wanted to put in place a replacement companion for Phil. Someone older and wiser and a little bit jaded, someone for Phil to bitch to that wasn’t Clint. Either way, it turned into a time of dramatic change for the studio. To replace Tony and Fury, as well as account for Maria’s reduction in hours in favour of working on some design concepts for Tony’s company,  Natasha, Bruce and Kate worked longer weeks. Even then, Kate hoped to be heading to California for a little while in the coming autumn, to spread her wings a little, so to speak, which would rock the studios stability all over again until she decided to come back. Clint would miss her and she wasn't even gone yet. 

“Because look at her,” Clint said, nudging Phil to get his gaze on where Kate was tattooing neo-Japanese style koi onto the inside of Bruce’s calf. _To help with your Zen_ , Kate had said—and who could argue with that? “She’s perfect.”

“You can’t adopt her, Clint.” Phil smirked. “She’s a little too old for that.”

“We need some more baby recruits,” Clint decided. “We need new projects.”

“I hope you’re not intimating Natasha Romanov was ever any sort of a project,” Phil countered, voice wry with scandal. “Don’t let her hear you say that.”

“I value both my hands, thanks.” Clint grinned. “But you know what I mean.”

“I do.” Phil nodded. “ _Shield_ ’s changing; we’ve just got to keep up with the tide.”

“ _We_ won’t change though, right?” asked Clint, suddenly hesitant—pulling at the cuff of his sweatshirt, self-conscious. He threw a quick glance to Phil before looking back to the floor, willing a customer to walk through the doors and relieve the tension.

Phil’s hand settled warm on his thigh, instead. “Of course not.”

That probably wasn’t wholly true. In the last nine months Clint had gotten a boyfriend, moved into a new apartment, now had shared custody of the hungriest dog in all of New York, and had really really _really_ , frills and bells and whistles and the whole shebang, fallen in love. That was more change than anyone—especially someone like Clint—should ever be able to cope with. But he’d already caught Phil looking in the window of real estate stores, assessing three bedroom Manhattan town houses with more garden than Lucky would know what to do with. They would be ever changing; Clint supposed that was the whole point. Most people probably called it growing or evolving or some poignant shit like that. And maybe that was true. Maybe Clint was looking at it all wrong—maybe _change_ looked worse than it was. So far at least, all the changes in Clint’s life since joining _Shield_ had been good ones.

Really good.

“Clint, would you come and talk to this gentleman,” Jessica called from the front desk. “You’ll like the idea.”

Clint nodded, sliding out of his chair. No rest for the wicked. He could feel Phil’s eyes on him as he walked away.

“If you’re not busy, Tasha,” he heard Phil say. “May I have a word?”

Clint didn’t think anything of it until he saw Phil baring the empty side of his neck to Natasha’s machine. Natasha grinned at Clint but shook her head at his inquiring gaze.

It wasn’t until they were at home, cling wrap removed, Phil stood shirtless in the bathroom coating a thin layer of diaper rash cream over the fresh lines of ink, that Clint understood.

A hand, with its thumb, index finger and pinkie outstretched. Dark line work shaded slightly and coloured with a creamy flesh tone, a purple shirt cuff underneath.

“That for me?” Clint asked, swallowing down the lump in his throat.

“You know many other people who I sign with?”

“I don’t know,” Clint considered. “I think you and Natasha do it when you think I can’t see you.”

“Hmm,” Phil agreed. “I’m not in love with Natasha though, as much as I care about her.”

“You’re sap.” Clint’s announcement was met with a burst of laughter. Phil nodded.

“For you, it seems I am. Try not to tell anyone.”

“I think with that on your neck you’re doing a good job of telling them yourself.”

“Ah,” Phil said with playful disagreement in his eyes. “Only to those that know.”

“Like a code.” Clint grinned.

They stood together in the bathroom for a long moment, eyes locked. For all the talking they did, it was hard for the both of them to really find the right words. And even when they found them, it took them longer than usual to actually voice them. This though, this was easier. Actions spoke louder than words, wasn’t that the saying? Maybe this was what that was—the tattoo. Saying in sign what they rarely verbalised. Making Clint constantly aware of his devotion, his unwavering affection. Through an action rather than the prosaic form of script.

“Come on,” Phil whispered, taking Clint’s hands in his and pulling him out towards the bedroom. “Try not to think too hard, you’ll injure yourself.”

Clint scoffed. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

"No," Phil said, leaning forward to place a kiss to the bruise on Clint's shoulder. Neither of them had any idea how he'd managed to acquire it. "I suppose it wouldn't." 

And yet, even if his body remained constantly knocked and bruised, littered in Band-Aids, Clint couldn't find it in himself to care. Not when Clint knew that his heart was in such good hands. 


End file.
